


Gimli Is A Pervy Elf-Fancier

by Not_You



Series: Welcome To Greyhame Academy [6]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asshole Thranduil, Assisted Masturbation, Bearded Dwarf Women, Beards (Facial Hair), Cultural Differences, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, M/M, Masturbation, Nipple Play, Pheromones, References to Knotting, Scent Marking, Sculpture, Senses, Sloppy Makeouts, Thranduil's A+ Parenting, Trees, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:26:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4748090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xenophile makeouts in Gimli's rented room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After much thought, Gimli has decided that the best thing about living in the city is renting from humans. The house feels flimsy, of course, but it's very good and solid for human stonework, and with his basement room Gimli is quite comfortable. But more importantly, no one says anything about his bringing an elf in to visit. They just wave, and Mrs. Beddowes calls from the kitchen to tell her soon if his friend will be staying for dinner.

“Would you like to?” he asks, looking up at Legolas and trying not to blush.

“I would be delighted,” he says, his smile gentle and mischievous in equal measure. Gimli relays this information, and then drags Legolas down to the basement before his embarrassment can really overtake him. Like most dwarves away from the mountains he has a lot of pretty tumbled agates and other common stones; as well as some candles and a box of glow-slime. He doesn't really need either one, but flickery red light and soft green light feel more like home than the soft yellow of electricity. Legolas smiles, jumping most of the staircase to land soundlessly on the rug as Gimli closes the door above. The floor is concrete, but that's just more homey for Gimli. He grew up on fluffy rugs atop cold stone, so he had just had some sent from the guest quarters at home to replace the large, cheap one his hosts had apologetically put down before his arrival.

“It is a bit like a cave, isn't it?” Legolas says, strolling around to look at things as Gimli makes his way down the stairs.

“Not nearly as sturdy,” he says, “but yes.” Legolas looks taller than ever down here, but at least the ceiling is a good height for him and Gimli has been able to make things reasonably nice. The decorative chains garlanded around the walls add shine and color, and the silver mirrors make the room seem more spacious. Gimli's least crappy projects are hung up, propped up, or displayed on shelves around the room. He feels pretty self-conscious about them now. It only gets worse when Legolas beams and heads straight for the least obvious shelf, which has the little gold tree he started sometime this summer and is just now starting to think of as finished. But it's not finished enough for Legolas to be looking at it, and Gimli scrambles after him.

“That's really barely finished,” he says, coming up beside Legolas, who has crouched to be at eye level with the thing, “and it's only a first try and I know the leaves aren't really right, so--”

“Gimli, dear,” Legolas says, taking his hand without looking away from the sculpture, “shut up.” Gimli shuts up and lets Legolas slide his long, elegant fingers between his own. “What I love most about this,” Legolas says, after a long and increasingly comfortable silence, “are the mistakes.”

“You do?” The leaves are the shape of no real tree, since Gimli couldn't decide on a reference photo and then kept screwing up anyway, and the thickness is uneven and he knows that the veining is sloppy.

Legolas just smiles. “Yes. I'm an elf, Gimli. If I want to see the leaves of any tree in the world expertly portrayed in precious metals, I know where to look.”

“Yes, at a dwarven shop,” Gimli says, and Legolas laughs.

“Very well, there, too.” He turns and looks at Gimli with those big, moon-silver eyes, the expression in them making his breath catch. “But if I want to see the very idea of a real, spreading tree in summer as it catches a sensitive and artistic mind for the first time, I must come to you.”

Gimli can feel himself blushing again, and then forgets about it as Legolas leans in and kisses him. Now that they're not in public Legolas can nuzzle Gimli's beard as much as they like, and he can almost hear him realizing that. At least Gimli has had time to explain about chin-glands and domes. There are people who think dwarves are more prone to warts than the other races, but those are mostly overgrown domes. They're concentrated on the hands, feet, and the areas covered by beard, with a few at the nape of the neck, and when Legolas breathes wetly over one Gimli makes an unlovely, stunned sort of gurgling noise.

“Mmm, these _are_ sensitive,” Legolas purrs, sounding delighted with his discovery, and the vibration makes Gimli tremble and whine, clutching at Legolas's shoulders for support. He mumbles something that might be Khuzdul, so it's just as well that it doesn't come out right. Legolas shivers and just keeps nuzzling him for a while, punctuated with soft kisses. He's incredibly gentle as he explores Gimli's jawline, and props him up as each newly-discovered dome makes him go weak in the knees.

“So soft,” Legolas murmurs, rubbing his lower lip over one in a way that makes reply absolutely impossible. “Like a rose petal.” Gimli likes roses. There's something queenly and luxurious about them that calls to someone as used to precious stones as he is. He might mention it if he could talk, but now Legolas has nuzzled in even closer and is sucking lightly on the dome at the corner of Gimli's jaw and he's afraid he's going to come in his pants. His mouth hangs open and lets out quiet, tortured sounds that Legolas can probably only tell are good by the way Gimli is clinging to him.

“Fffuck, Legolas!” he breathes, and Legolas chuckles against his neck.

“No wonder dwarves guard their beards so closely.” He pulls back to look into Gimli's eyes, trembling a little at whatever he sees there. He says something in Sindarin and then leans in again only to stop short, eyes still open. Gimli isn't sure what he's doing, but it's probably elven and since the guy just spent the past however long fondling Gimli's facial domes it's only polite to play along. It's weird, but calming to sit here and breathe together. It lets him really taste Legolas's pheromones and study the color of his eyes. It's satisfying to see him flush pink after being so undone in the face of his composure before, and once they've shared enough breath, Gimli nuzzles along Legolas's smooth cheek to investigate the point of his ear. Everyone has heard about this, and he's pleased to find that it's true. A soft, wet kiss makes him gasp, and slow suckling on the very tip makes him moan and now he's the one who can barely keep himself upright. 

Legolas's skin is so smooth that it ought to remind Gimli of a child and put him off, but somehow it doesn't. A large part of it is that subtle elven scent, like moss and mystery and starlight, but there's also the sleek quality that only elven skin has, and of course the shape of Legolas's ear against his lips, as well as his voice when he gasps and then cries out softly as Gimli slips his hand under the weight of his golden hair to cup the back of his neck. His eyes are huge when Gimli pulls back to look into them.

“...Is this all right?” Gimli asks. Legolas doesn't smell frightened, but it's best to check.

“Y-yes,” Legolas whispers, and when Gimli squeezes gently, he makes a yearning little sound and tips his head forward, gazing up at Gimli now, and it makes for a very interesting perspective.


	2. Chapter 2

Legolas has been carefully brought up to be a gracious guest, so he does not fly into a rage when Mrs. Beddowes knocks on the door and calls to them that dinner is ready, but it's a near thing. As it is he lets Gimli pull away and the hot, stony pressure on the nape of his neck stops. It's all he can do not to whine. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that there is plenty of time to bask in the kind of touches a 'prince of Greenwood' ought never to enjoy, as if the crown held any actual weight anymore, and while he's too mature (and too decent) to start anything with anyone _just_ to anger his father, he can't deny that it's a pleasant extra. He chuckles at the thought and stands, performing the little twitch of the head that lets him know that his hair is presentable. Gimli is of course already standing, being so short to start with, and gazes up at Legolas with an expression that makes him blush again.

“Am I so beautiful?” he asks softly, and Gimli chuckles, kissing his hand and nuzzling a little along the back. Sensitive as Legolas's hands are, he can't feel any of the exquisitely sensitive domes through all the beard. That's probably what it's there for, at least partially.

“You vanity doesn't need any feeding,” Gimli says, “but yes. You are.” He squeezes Legolas's hand and then lets it go, preceding him to the door to let him out with a little bow that doesn't feel like the joke it usually is.

Legolas has never actually been a dinner guest in a human household before, and is fascinated by the table. A lot of the food is sort of hobbit-like, but there's more meat and some southern fruits that Legolas's Shire-born friends have never acquired a taste for. Mrs. Beddowes is an attentive hostess, making sure that Gimli has his own shaker of the Ent-wife mineral blend he has been bringing to school in a little twist of paper, and that Legolas gets all the salad he needs. The household's children are small, but very used to non-human company, so they just study Legolas when they think he isn't watching. He catches the eye of the youngest and winks, wiggling the sharp tips of his ears in the way that seems to amuse babies of all species. It works just as well here, and Legolas smiles as the child giggles.

The Beddowes family seem like very nice people, and Legolas is glad that Gimli has found a temporary home among them. He and Mr. Beddowes talk about steel prices, and he and Mrs. Beddowes talk about current trends in jewelry and everyone talks about school and how each of the household's children are doing. Gimli has been warmly enfolded into that, and Legolas loves them for it. He also loves them for the easy way they welcome Gimli's dwarven traits. Legolas can only imagine the way his father would act with a dwarf seated at his table, drinking rank fermented fungus and eating raw soil. Father is far too well-bred to actually refer to a dinner guest as filthy little dirt-eater to his face, but he would certainly do so later, and make his displeasure quietly obvious at the time. The Beddowes family hardly seems to notice.

Once the meal is over, Legolas and Gimli clear up, resisting the impulse to fling the plates to one another the way they do at Frodo's apartment. It's actually the oldest Beddowes child's turn to do the dishes, but Gimli rinses a few things to give him a head start before taking Legolas's hand and leading him back down to the basement. Legolas jumps the stairs again, and Gimli chuckles, locking the door at the top and then making his slower way down.

“It's nice to know that a prince of Greenwood isn't too dignified to bound around like a squirrel.”

Legolas rolls his eyes, a little stung by the way the good-natured joke combines with his own thoughts. “That's my father's problem, not mine.” He tries to keep his voice light, but it must be a failure because Gimli comes up and takes his hand, looking up at him with an endearing amount of concern. “It's all right,” Legolas says, lacing his fingers between Gimili's. It's a rather forward and intimate hold among elves, but Legolas wants to be sure that he's making his point. Gimli squeezes gently. “I was just thinking about my father earlier,” Legolas mutters.

“I'm sure he'd have a lot of things to say to me, and none of 'em would be _edinor veren_ ,” Gimli says, lilting the Sindarin words just right. 

Legolas smiles. “He'd have to try hard not to look like an owl in daylight when he heard your pretty accent,” he says, and Gimli blushes. Legolas leads him over to the wide, low bed in one corner. This is something else that would be far too forward with another elf, but there's no other place to sit but Gimli's little workbench. The bed is much more comfortable, even if it is so low that Legolas has pull his boots off and cross his legs on the mattress to keep from sprawling everywhere. Gimli looks over at him and smiles, his own heavy boots planted on the floor.

“A real dwarven bed is lower than this,” he says, leaning against Legolas's side, heavy and warm and comforting.

Legolas puts an arm around him. “It is? I don't see how.”

Gimli chuckles, nuzzling Legolas's shoulder. “They're sunken into the floor, stone nests lined with furs and full of cushions.” He presses his chin to Legolas's shirt, and there's a sudden, strong rush of the usual musky Gimli smell.

“Did you just mark me?” Legolas asks, not sure if he should be offended or not. Surely this is even more forward than he has been. Gimli blushes, sitting up straight and pulling his beard backward to hide his flaming face. It's adorable. “I don't exactly mind,” Legolas asks, amused and fond, his hand still resting on Gimli's back, “I'm just curious.”

“I've marked you before,” Gimli mutters, “just not so much.”

“Really?” Legolas can feel how wide his eyes have gone.

“Just as a friend!” Gimli hastens to add. “Remember, when I clapped you on the shoulder, late this summer? It was the first time, and I had a bit of scent on my hand.”

“And here I thought you just needed to bathe. Only a mild need!” he adds when Gimli tries to pull away in indignation. “I just noticed your scent, when I usually don't.” Gimli relaxes, leaning on him again. He's still rather pink, but much more composed.

“Dwarves mark good friends, and one puts a bit onto one's letters to prove that they're genuine, but direct marking is only for family and... well. Our name for it sounds silly in Westron.”

“So do many of the elven ones,” Legolas says. “If we didn't know Aragorn, I'd suspect humans of having no romance in their souls.”

Gimli laughs. “I see that Boromir gets no mention.”

“Of course not,” Legolas says, grinning at him. 

His smile fades into the solemnity of desire as Gimli cups his face with one broad hand and gently pulls him down into a deep, slow kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

Gimli twines his fingers into Legolas's beautiful hair and holds him in place so that he can kiss him properly. At the moment, he has no patience for delicate elven breath-sharing, and he wants to make that clear. Legolas just sighs and slides his tongue along Gimli's, getting two big handfuls of the back of his shirt and tipping onto his back without the slightest suggestion of resistance. There's something intoxicating to the ease of it, and Gimli growls happily, letting go of Legolas's hair to prop himself up as he sweeps the whole silky fall of it out from under Legolas's head and then ranges over him, covering his neck and the milky skin over his collarbones in kisses as he pants and grabs for Gimli's left hand. Gimli adjusts and lets him have it, shuddering as Legolas sucks his first two fingers into his mouth. Legolas moans, a quiet sound that sets Gimli's blood on fire and is going to haunt his dreams. 

He has no way of knowing if this is an elven thing or a Legolas thing, but he's stroking his mouth with Gimli's fingers, sucking and licking in a way that makes Gimli's mind jump ahead to the thought of a similar performance on his cock, and before he even knows he's doing it, he's biting Legolas's neck. He knows perfectly well that elves think biting is beastly, but in the heat of the moment he forgets himself. There is no real excuse, but surely having a gorgeous elf sucking on the domes of his left hand is a mitigating circumstance. He doesn't bite hard, just a loving press of the teeth, but Legolas still jumps like a landed fish, yelping something in Sindarin.

“Shit,” Gimli mutters, scrambling to kneel beside him. “Sorry, sorry, are you all right?” Legolas just stares up at him with huge eyes. He looks so shocked that Gimli can't be sure if any of it is terror. And then his brain catches up with his senses and he registers the cloud of sweet, bosky scent around Legolas, and he's not sure of every elven pheromone combination yet, but he's pretty sure this one is mostly arousal.

Legolas puts a hand to the spot where Gimli hasn't even left a mark and closes his eyes, trembling as he takes a deep, slow breath. “I'm all right,” he says softly, and then reaches for Gimli, tugging him down onto him again. Gimli is glad to go, and sighs, nuzzling Legolas's neck.

“I'm sorry to be shocking,” he says softly, and Legolas laughs.

“If the unexpected were going to put me off, I wouldn't be so charmed by a dwarf,” he says, and slips his fingers into the base of Gimli's braid, putting just a little pressure on the back of his head and making the domes at the base of his skull tingle and throb. “Please, again.”

There's no way that Gimli can resist that, and he bites Legolas again, wiping his fingers on the sheet and unfastening the top quarter or so of Legolas's long tunic, the tiny buttons presenting no obstacle to someone who does as much delicate work as Gimli. Legolas gasps and whines, clutching at Gimli like these gentle bites are more than he can bear. When Gimli sits back to open Legolas's tunic, he makes a little mewl of complaint, and gazes up at Gimli, lips parted and cheeks flushed pink. Gimli chuckles, resting his hand on Legolas's breastbone. It looks huge, gnarled, and very brown against the milky skin and delicate bone of Legolas's chest, and he strokes that smooth expanse as gently as he can.

“Ai, your calluses,” Legolas coos, and Gimli kisses him, shivering at the taste. The qualities of elven scent are here, but there's also a note that Gimli can only think of as green and sunny. Before leaving the mountains he would have been at even more of a loss, but now he can make tentative comparisons to tree leaves and sorrel. As Gimli tastes, his fingertips seek out one nipple. Legolas is no exception to the general elven preference for thin fabrics, and lately Gimli has been driven mad by the two dainty little points he can so often see through Legolas's clothes. Now he rolls his thumb over the left one, and Legolas whines sharply, arching up into the touch.

“Are these as pretty as the rest of you?” Gimli asks, undoing a few more buttons to admire the tiny, barely-pink nubs. “So pretty,” Gimli croons in answer to himself. “May I put my mouth on them?” He asks, determined to show better manners than he did with the bite. Legolas's blush deepens, and he looks away and says something to himself in Sindarin that Gimli can't parse. 

He looks back a moment later, and smiles. “Please,” he says softly, and Gimli lowers his head slowly, to give Legolas plenty of time to change his mind. 

Everyone who attends Greyhame gets a little primer on the other species, though hobbits and humans can each choose to waive the other since they grow up together so much more often, but of course it doesn't get into the stuff that Gimli needs to know now. It's not as if suckling is a casual greeting among dwarves, but it is just part of things after a certain point. Judging by Legolas's attentive stillness, it's yet another thing that's so much more Meaningful with elves. That's okay. Legolas means a lot to him. Gimli sighs through his nose as he breathes over Legolas's nipple before just brushing it with his lips. Legolas squirms and giggles, the sound high and silvery and entirely too cute. “Yes?” Gimli asks, looking up and raising an eyebrow.

“Your beard tickles,” Legolas informs him, and giggles again. 

Gimli grins at him and brushes it back and forth over his chest, inciting gales of laughter that make him join in. It takes a bit for them to quiet, but when they do, Gimli lowers his head again and sighs, sucking that tiny point into his mouth and making Legolas shove a handful of the blanket between his teeth to muffle a cry. The taste here is different from the rest of Legolas's skin so far, and Gimli growls happily as he commits it to memory. He presses closer, and feels Legolas's cock, as hard if not as hot as a dwarven one against his ribs. He's fascinated and wants to learn its shape and texture, but Legolas smells a little alarmed as Gimli runs a hand up his thigh, and that's more than enough to make him shelve the issue for now. Besides, there's a whole other side of Legolas's chest to map, and he tickles it with his beard before soothing it with lips and tongue, his hands safely on Legolas's sides, gripping his lean flanks and feeling the fine work of his ribcage. He feels like he could do this all night, but all too soon there's a knock on the door.

“Gimli, dear,” Mrs. Beddowes calls, “it's nearly nine o'clock!” 

One of the house rules is no guests after nine on school nights, and Gimli grumbles before calling, “Of course, ma'am!” in reply. Legolas giggles, sitting up and kissing Gimli's cheek.


	4. Chapter 4

“So, uh...” Gimli coughs and squirms. “We've got about fifteen minutes, I'd say.”

Legolas is wearing his usual light leafsilk, and there is no way it will hide his physical state. Elves may find most humans to be strangely embarrassed to possess physical bodies and walk upon the earth, but acceptance of one's own responses does not mean obtruding one's genitals onto public awareness. A quiescent cock as witnessed at a bath house or in a river is one thing, but erections are another.

“Uh... you gonna do anything about that?” Gimli asks, and Legolas cocks his head, confused.

“Some breathing exercises, perhaps.”

“...Is that an elf thing, or a Legolas thing?” Gimli asks, squirming a little.

“I think most of us would do so in this situation, yes,” he says, beginning to breathe in the restful pattern that will have him soft again in a few minutes.

“Most dwarves in this situation would have a quick wank,” Gimli says, “but I don't want to be a bad host and make you uncomfortable.”

Legolas can feel his face flushing, and his breath falls out of rhythm. “I... I would be comfortable with watching,” he offers, and Gimli makes a strange noise somewhere between a whine and a growl, hiding his face in Legolas's chest for a moment before he rolls onto his back and starts unlacing his trousers. Elven fashion generally doesn't require zippers, and dwarves have never really taken to them. Legolas is glad of it, because this way he can watch Gimli's hands. They fascinate him, so heavy and knobbly but so quick and graceful. 

He wriggles his broad hips and pushes the trousers down just far enough, revealing a vast thicket of red-gold hair, a few shades darker and even more curly than the hair on his head. His cock rises from it, thick and what would be a pretty alarming color for an elf. Dwarven blood is darker, and Gimli's erection is closer to purple than red. There's a curious thickening at the base, and Gimli grips there first, squeezing tightly and biting his lip. Legolas shivers, curling up beside him to watch, resting his head on Gimli's shoulder, feeling the motion of his strong arm as he makes short, hard strokes over and over the base of his cock. 

Legolas has taken Comparative Anatomy, so he knows that dwarves have knots, but he never thought he would see one for himself. It swells as Gimli grips it, reaching a quarter again the size of the main shaft before he slides his hand off of it to stroke his soft, thick foreskin over and over the sleek, narrow head. He's pouring precome, and it seems so much thicker than what Legolas is used to. It drips over Gimli's hand like melting ice cream, and Legolas can't help a small giggle at the comparison.

“You'd better not be laughing at dwarven tackle, boyo,” Gimli growls, and Legolas beams, kissing him and putting a hand on his forearm to feel the thick muscle working.

“I just had a silly thought, dear one,” Legolas coos, nuzzling into his beard and making his breath hitch in his chest. “I find this just as beautiful and strange as the rest of you. Is the fluid always so thick?”

“Sometimes thicker,” Gimli says through gritted teeth, hissing as his puts his hand on his knot again, squeezing it even harder than before. He groans quietly and then has to bite on his free hand to stifle a cry as Legolas finds one of the little domes hidden in the hair, nuzzling it and then suckling gently on it as Gimli gasps and comes. It's an abrupt jolt like he hears humans and hobbits have, but Gimli shakes for much longer than the thirty seconds to a minute that Aragorn says his people get, semen slowly pulsing instead of shooting out. He writhes with his teeth on his hand until Legolas leans in, offering the crook of his neck. 

It's still a shock when Gimli latches on, but Legolas just muffles a cry of his own and relaxes into it, whimpering softly. He loves the way it feels, even if most other elves would be appalled. It's so bestial and primitive and Legolas is beginning to realize that he likes that. Gimli is also gentle, the muscle of his jaw so controlled even as he writhes and pulses for another tiny eternity. Even now, he won't hurt Legolas, and that thought makes him whimper and whisper a few Sindarin endearments into Gimli's ear, brushing his lips across it to familiarize himself with the oddly blunt shape, almost squared off.

At long last, Gimli shivers to a stop, and gives Legolas a grateful kiss before going to clean up and leaving Legolas to perform his breathing exercises again. It takes a great deal of concentration, but within a few minutes Legolas is quiet again. He opens his eyes and smiles to see Gimli standing by the bed and smiling shyly at him.

“You all right?”

Legolas chuckles. “Of course.” He tugs Gimli a little closer and kisses him again. As they part, Mrs. Beddowes calls down to them again, and Gimli follows Legolas up the stairs, where he thanks his hostess and bids the household a fond farewell. He wants to kiss Gimli again, but he settles a tender press of the hand instead. Humans never seem to notice all the subtitles of this form of affection, and he can't be sure that Gimli understands the meaning of each little press. The caress of one fingertip over a nearly-invisible dome on the inside of Gimli's wrist is something much more obvious, though. Gimli just blushes, and wishes Legolas a lovely evening. 

Legolas grins, and runs off into the night. He could have driven here, but it's a pleasant walk, and not so very long for an elf. He makes his way through back gardens and along balconies, too quick and too light to disturb the humans inside. On one balcony a cat hisses at him, and Legolas just laughs, bounding away again.

A prince of Greenwood must of course have lodgings appropriate to his situation in life, but Legolas has at least bargained his father down to an off-Park residence. He's near the edge of the retained forest and its eleven buildings, but is actually part of a multi-species apartment complex, thank the Valar. There are heavy vines trained over the western wall, and Legolas climbs up to his window, slipping through and sighing happily as he slips out of his boots and makes the rounds of his various indoor plants. Elves in the city all keep potted plants, particularly those without any yard space of their own. As he plucks dead leaves and sings softly to encourage his hydroponic herbs, he wonders which of the plants Gimli will like best when he returns the visit. The mechanism of the hydroponic set will surely appeal to him, but he might be more attracted by the saplings, so much more alien and exotic. Legolas chuckles, fingertips lightly caressing their smooth bark as he murmurs to them, silly, simple talk like humans always use with cats.

The delicate raindrop noise of a call from his father makes him roll his eyes and sigh. “Yes, Father?” He says, pulling the phone out of his pocket.

“You know I dislike these machines,” he says, and Legolas groans quietly.

“Yes, Father. And how are you this fine autumn night?”

Father is fine, aside from fretting about Legolas's association with a ragtag crew of mortals and his general failure to act exactly as his father thinks he should. Legolas humors him as best he can, promises to come straight home for autumn break. In the quiet after they hang up, he stretches out on the floor, ruminating on the boring, stiff holiday before him. The soft clanking of a hammer on metal announces a call from Gimli, and Legolas grins.

“Hello, dear one.”

“I like the way that sounds in your mouth,” he says softly, and Legolas can feel himself blushing.

“Good. When I'm stuck with a stupid twiggy crown on my head listening to the eighty-ninth verse of the Turning Hymn, I will think of how much you enjoy being called my dear one, and be consoled.”

“Pawky elf,” Gimli mutters, and Legolas laughs.


End file.
